‘Translated’ from the original, Book III of The Excursion by William Wordsworth.
You never saw her. If you had, you’d have borne a share of what I suffered when I wept for her, and frequently suffer now from the thought that I remember but can weep no more. Though I’m stripped of self-esteem and assailed by the cutting blasts of self-reproach, the single leaf of your regard still hangs on my naked branches. Lively thoughts often give birth to unguarded words – I’m sorry that I’ve already said too much, but too much demands still more.
